Clipped Wings
by trisanamcgraw
Summary: "Even in life, Ben had been an angel. The bike had been Ricky's last chance to ride away from this overpowering guilt. Now neither could fly because their wings were clipped." My Bodyguard fic; Linderman struggles to find solace after his brother's death.


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Author's Note: While watching My Bodyguard for the second time, I noticed how Linderman was dedicated to his bike, and from that I started to compare the bike with his brother, and this fic was born. I made up the name of his dead brother, since the movie never gave the boy's name -- what do you think of Ben?

Clipped Wings

By Trisana McGraw

Ricky Linderman had just about resigned himself to being a failure when an angel made its unexpected appearance from heaven. Or, to put it literally and without all that goddamned flowery language that Shakespeare used, Linderman barely avoided a hunk of scrap metal dropping on his head.

He'd been hanging around the junkyards, one of his few hideouts that he had recently discovered as he grieved over his brother's death. His house offered little of its former illusion of home, what with his mother drifting around like a listless ghost, sighing over her little boy lost to a fatal accident and the older brother whose life had somehow also been ruined by the tragedy.

Linderman wouldn't – couldn't – deal her the final blow that would possibly kill her by telling her that it was _he_ who had shot Ben. Even worse than her ghostly existence would be the wordless looks of icy fury and disappointment his mother would send him. Her haunted eyes, ringed with darkness, would pierce through him like the gunshot that had sent his brother to heaven.

And his father – the bastard had retreated to the tattered, broken couch to become lost in the world of television. He became as listless as his wife, but at least she pretended to go about with her daily routine. On the occasions that Linderman stopped by home and saw the apathetic blob on the couch, he felt his face grow hot with fury and disgust. The horrible man lay around uselessly, a glassy-eyed zombie in his old underwear, with not a single care in the world.

That was the only thing Linderman envied of his father: his ability to forget it all. 

He sort of remembered what one counselor had said to him, a few months after the incident. She had spoken in a calm, serene voice, as if nothing could ruffle her feathers; he'd liked that. She'd told him that he would feel many different emotions and that it would take some time to heal. _No shit, Sherlock_, he'd been tempted to retort; every day still dragged like five years, and the pain in his heart was far from dulled.

First came denial, on the day of Ben's death. He couldn't remember how long he'd stood there, staring into dark, lifeless eyes that had lost their twinkle. Then, slowly, as if moving through a thick fog, he'd looked down and seen the gun clasped between their bodies. Ben's fingers had still been curled around the muzzle; and as Ricky looked, he'd seen his own fingers clutching the trigger. The acrid stench of blood hit him then, and he'd dropped the gun without thinking and scurried backwards. All of this had seemed to occur in a distance; all he'd felt was numbness, a complete absence of sensation or emotion. He'd barely turned away from Ben's corpse before he'd vomited. Still moving in a detached, dreamlike state, he'd placed the gun in Ben's hand; and when the authorities came, he told them that he had found the body, just like that. 

God, he hated himself for his cowardice that day, and for every day after. But he'd just been so confused and terrified, and he remained that way for a long time afterward, though he didn't dare show it. In the time that followed, as every moment between Ben's death and the present had steadily lengthened, he hadn't known what the hell to do with himself. He had continued to move through life — school, wandering through his bleak home — without allowing the pain of grief to fully settle. Then, without realizing what had prompted it, he had begun beating up on kids at school, using his size to make himself formidable and feared. Anger had flooded his body like a searing flame, all consuming, but when the brief high was gone, he'd felt only a sick emptiness, as if his insides had been carved out. And what was worse was that now people gave him furtive, sideways glances, as if he were some psycho ready to snap at any moment. Which, once he gave it some proper reflection, he probably had been.

With no real home to return to, Linderman had found sanctuaries where he could be alone and unbothered. The junkyard was one. Also, in the neighborhood where he lived, there was the auto repair shop where his father used to work before Ben's death, and there Linderman found his solace in the vehicles being repaired.

The day a run-down hunk of metal that may have been, in another life, a functional motorcycle, had rolled down a hill, barely missing his head as it crashed to the ground. For several minutes Linderman had stared at it blankly, with an expression equal parts perplexity and disgust. He'd continued walking past it, but it was less than a thirty seconds before he'd heaved a sigh, wheeled back around, and lifted the bike and carried it to the auto repair shop.

Stacked on shelves and old conveyer belts, as well as a large selection available at the junkyard, were the parts he would need to rebuild the bike. It was a project — the first thing to occupy his mind in a long time — and one that Linderman gladly took upon himself to complete.

It was through this that he began to piece his life back together. He remembered what the nice counselor had said about the five stages of grief, and where he was now; she had called it "bargaining," and it made him laugh now, because she'd been absolutely right. Here was a way to atone for his grievous error; he felt cool relief wash over him at the thought, making him feel lightheaded and giddy.

Combining the right pieces of the bike was a therapeutic exercise for him, if nothing else. With each handle and coil that he was able to fit together – like a puzzle of metal pieces, he bemusedly thought – the tattered edges of his life slowly drew themselves back together, mending the tear and making it whole again.

But it wasn't as good as new; it could never be. The shadow of the hole still ached and throbbed with memories, and nothing — no sympathetic intentions from teachers or friends of his family, no gentle counseling that was nothing but senseless babbling — could ever fill it again.

His bleak reality, blessedly taking a backseat for once, reemerged one day, proving that it would continue to haunt him no matter how he tried to make up for his mistake. He'd worked long and hard, abandoning friendships — like he'd had any in the first place — and his social life — _Hah! That's a good one_ -- in order to fix his bike. As he was looking over what he would still need, he came across a component whose absence he had noted since Day 1, and that he was still having a tough time getting: the proper cylinder. He checked off his list of everything else he needed: upper farings — gas tank — wheels — no cylinder. No one sold it; he'd perused the junkyard millions of times, with no success; it wasn't available anywhere.

The old anger returned, and Linderman flung the bike off the worktable with an agitated growl. It was almost perfect — except for the single hole, right smack dab in the middle of the machine. It seemed to leer at him, teasing him with the knowledge that only one part could fit into the hole, and no other. He needed one more thing to make it all right again, and it was the one thing he would never find.

And now the bike had truly become his brother.

__

He'd taken care of the little boy, acted as a father to him —

He'd picked up the scrap metal from the junkyard and brought it home with him —

Teaching him everything he'd need to know in life —

Finding the perfect parts to fill in the holes —

Then, because of an accident, the little boy had gotten a bullet lodged in his brain —

His only comfort had been snatched away from him in punishment for killing his brother —

Even in life, Ben had been an angel. The bike had been Ricky's last chance to ride away from this overpowering guilt. Now neither could fly because their wings were clipped.

__

If only he could find the right piece — if only he could dig out the bullet, replace Ben's brains and seal up his head, nicely so that there's no trace of damage.

With the anger came disgust for himself. He was stupid to think that some heap of scrap metal could soothe the pain. And accompanying the anger and disgust was a new feeling of depression; he felt as if he were falling, falling into a deep black hole, and above and below and around him was only darkness. It seeped into his skin, and the old numbness wrapped around him, tighter than ever.

Once in a while he'd considered leaving it all behind, taking a permanent vacation from the bleak reality he faced every morning. Then one night he decided to put that plan into effect. He'd heard of people saying they couldn't bear to live anymore, and for years he'd never understood what they meant; now the meaning was crystal clear. What reason kept him tied to this Earth, now that Ben was gone? He hadn't deserved to live. No one who is responsible for the death of a loved one can try to continue a healthy life.

The idea of suicide hadn't bothered him one bit — it wasn't as if he were looking to get into heaven, anyway --; at least, not before his nerves ran out. He'd taken a knife and slowly, his hand shaking, pulled back one sleeve and bared his left wrist. He had swallowed past a throat as dry and scratchy as sandpaper and let the knife plunge into his wrist. There had been a jolt of pain, then he had unemotionally watched blood seeping from the wound in a thin rivulet down his arm, warm against his cold skin. In a flash, his life had passed before his eyes, like everyone said it did on the verge of death. Suddenly he couldn't do this, couldn't face an early death without feeling disgusted at how low he had become; for a moment, he thought he heard another voice in his ears, urging him not to end his life. He thought it was his voice of reason, finally breaking out of his grief-induced coma; at least, that's what he told himself, because there was nothing else to believe.

He hadn't died that night, but living still wasn't much better. He'd still not told the police what really happened on the day of Ben's death, but what most bothered him was not the possibility of getting arrested but his brother's disappointment in him. Benny's last words had been, "You'll have to take the blame for this one" and Ricky had broken that promise. He couldn't even go through with his own suicide afterwards. He was good for nothing.

__

A failure. That's what he was, and there was no point in fighting it.

And so he reached the last stage of his grief: acceptance. He was supposed to admit that he had suffered a terrible loss and get on with his life. But what he experiences now is not a good feeling, where he's supposed to become stronger because of his suffering. This only cripples him more. Now he truly feels like a helpless child who can't do a damn thing to take care of himself.

Yet he can't help thinking that he's got some sort of aluminum angel watching over him, and its presence is what gets him from day to day. And that angel sent a blessing — yeah, he knows he's getting all flowery again, but this is the truth — in the form of one boy who took a good look at Linderman and decided he was worth more than he'd let himself be.

Ricky hadn't asked for companionship; he hadn't even wanted to be Clifford's paid protection in the first place. But Cliff had turned their simple business arrangement into an intimate — and sometimes scary because of that honesty — friendship.

And when the two of them had soared through the streets of Chicago on Ricky's restored motorcycle, with the wind tearing at their clothes and hair as they grinned like insane fools — they had all been flying.


End file.
